


Party of Two

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: I just don't know how to tag this I'm sorry, M/M, Meeting old friends and not knowing if they're friends anymore, Sad and hopeful, i guess, more a series of vignettes, reconcilliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: It must be nice to be able to be able to choose your realities. To live your lifetime without regrets.(Maybe so, even if only for this lifetime.)Mainly a Simeon character exploration.
Relationships: Barbatos/Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started fun and then became a Simeon fic.  
> Is it canon-compliant? Probably not. But look.
> 
> Simeon and Lucifer knew each other from before. Before the fall, before the Celestial War.  
> And that implies a choice.

It began as a matter of curiosity. Any angel who would agree to attend a cultural exchange within the realm of devils must almost certainly have an ample amount of it. (Or, perhaps, a nearly slavish respect for a certain Archangel who’d encouraged the trip.) And there are things he wants to know, questions gone unanswered for so many thousands of years he can barely remember the form of them, words held sharp on his tongue unvoiced. 

~~Left with nothing but an amorphous sadness and the strange sting of regret.~~

So maybe it’s not so shocking that he’d be the one to choose. A volunteer heralded as compassionate and brave despite being driven by the primitive fuel of want. A desperate desire to _know_. 

He seizes the chance with benign smile and muted grace, remembers his posture and his position. Lights a comforting hand on the young angel’s shoulder who’s been nominated for the program, and ensures him everything will be alright. Angels must look out for everyone, and that includes each other. 

And then it’s a month away, a day, a blink (time moves so strangely for those who don’t have to mark its passing) and suddenly light and open air become ash and night and sulfur and they’re abruptly, irrevocably, there.

And he wonders, almost numbly, if he’s done something unforgivable, forced a miracle. 

Because he’s faced with the obsessive object of his thoughts, the main actor in nightmares that angels cannot have. Listens to the Devildom’s Prince expound upon his excitement all while staring into black-red eyes.

Luke endures the welcome with remarkable grace, despite the palpable distrust suffusing his small frame. Nods and says hello and makes vague noises about how honoured he is to grace these halls. Simeon smiles, feels a laugh starting somewhere deep within him, too far away to be let out, and echoes the sentiment with more sincerity. 

Afterwards the Prince insists on tea, turns back to a demon hovering beside him shadow enough to go unnoticed. Says something, gesturing excitedly. Then they stand. The ~~angels~~ demons below them follow suit, each with varying degrees of reluctance, some requiring outright coercion. Simeon puts his hand on Luke’s shoulder (again), presses him just slightly forwards as they follow the strange procession.

They wind up at the Palace gardens — a privilege that would have been outlandish to expect. Simeon turns his head, admiring, notes the diverse array of beautiful looking flora and wonders if any of them could poison an angel. One of the ~~angels~~ demons stumbles, falling into a bush, white hair disarrayed with leaves. 

A cup is settled in front of him, something sharp and fragrant as a winter’s night poured into spotless ceramic. Simeon looks up to see a demon with green hair and impeccable dress holding an ornate metal pot. 

“It’s a Devildom blend,” the demon explains, voice lilting and soft. “Our Lord thought that you might like to experience something unique on the first day of your exchange. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Simeon smiles at him, open and appreciative, knows how effective it is to utilize sincerity and charm. “I’m sure it will be. It smells amazing.”

The demon bows at the waist, moves on to the next guest. Simeon regards the tea thoughtfully, closes his eyes and tries to pick apart the scents. He can’t, of course. Too much of it is foreign, specific to this realm. He lifts the cup to his face and sips. 

It tastes just as lovely as it smells. 

It’s an afternoon of leisure. Lord Diavolo sits eagerly forwards, eyes bright as he asks his questions. He’s heard of the Celestial Realm before of course, he _must_ have. Simeon bats the questions with a diplomatic grace, eyes never straying to the ~~angel~~ demon at his right. Black wings flutter, fold, as he sips his tea. 

And then it’s over, enough interrogation for one day (the Prince is joking, but is he really?), and they stand fluid from their seats, every one of them a study in power if not grace. And he _knew_ the fall would change things, would alter their lives, their physiology, their blinding, perfect natures, but. Two ~~angels~~ demons trip out of their chairs and a third upends his entirely. 

Simeon pushes the filigreed seat in, back straight, smile unmoved. Luke is fighting a snort at his left, trying to turn his amusement dismissive. 

Simeon stares at the mess of them and thinks _If only you had seen them before_.

Luke makes some polite inquiries about the garden as they’re parting, and the Prince and his butler take him, delighted, through the maze of their landscape. Simeon says a silent prayer of gratitude in the young angel’s direction, an unknowing accomplice. 

The ~~angel~~ demon is, unexpectedly, standing off to the side, watching the proceedings with an implacable face. Simeon steps closer, about to say something, when he notices the bags under his eyes. He looks . . . _tired_. A confounding impossibility. He stutters in his step, feeling off-balance. 

“What is it.”

Simeon is not surprised to be noticed. He smiles, lets the full force of his sincerity bleed through. “I came down to see you. I didn’t think I’d get the chance so soon.”

The ~~angel~~ demon continues staring out, a lord surveying his domain. The others are scattered, picking their meandering steps through the grounds on their way . . . somewhere else. Simeon continues, easy, into the silence. “I’m glad.”

Something tugs at him; the scales of the world re-aligning. A shift, power and emotion. He has the belated sense that this is a conversation he never should have started. 

But. 

He’d looked up to him so much. The paragon of perfection, point of pride within the ranks. Glorious, brilliant Morning Star. An angel who was warm and encompassing as sunshine, smile light, eyes bright. An aura so divine it was impossible not to see him and be washed serene.

Lucifer turns to him, and his eyes are bright as memory but cold with it. The echoes of a flame long since extinguished. His voice is low, a hiss, but he’s perfectly coherent. “So _now_ you follow me.”

Simeon doesn’t say anything to that, just lets the shock wash over him thoroughly enough to disguise the hurt. ~~The shame~~. Lucifer clearly doesn’t expect a response, already turning away. It was unfair and they both know it.

~~But the words are claws digging into flesh and light and it stings it stings it stings~~

It’s funny. He’d thought so many lifetimes would have granted distance. But a handful of words from him and he’s shattering, time turning backwards. He wants to laugh. So.

Why does it feel like dying.

* * *

“I’m pleased you could join me,” he says, jovial. His voice is deep; rumbles and laughter. “Be honest. You wanted more of Barbatos’ tea.”

The butler inclines his head behind him, mild. “You do me too much credit, my Lord.”

“Your tea is fantastic,” Simeon says. He doesn’t move to take his cup, but he never says things he doesn’t mean. “Can I invite you to sit with us?”

“He’s right! Barbatos, pull up a chair.”

Barbatos defers to his master, silently slipping a chair into the nearest empty space. He perches at the edge, formal and attentive. 

“Simeon, thank you for agreeing to have tea with me,” Diavolo starts, eyes shining. 

Simeon only inclines his head. “Of course. I’m honoured to be invited. Did you have any lingering questions about the Celestial Realm?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He leans forwards, the significant muscle of his arms coming to rest on the tabletop. “I take it you knew Lucifer when he was an angel.”

The prince is awfully direct. That’s refreshing, in an odd sort of way. “I did.”

“What was he like?” 

Simeon can see the excitement in his face, surprisingly unguarded. He smiles, polite and amused. “He was divine.” 

Diavolo huffs, looking put out. “I knew that.”

“In a different way, I mean.” Simeon stares down at the surface of his tea, untouched. “He’s still beautiful of course. But when I saw him in the Celestial Realm, he was nearly glowing. He radiated so intensely sometimes he was impossible to look at.”

Diavolo nods, quick to agree. “Yes! I remember the first time I saw him. He was so wonderful I almost couldn’t believe my eyes.” He sighs, expression growing wistful. “There was an aura about him, even bloodied and tired. A power, a sort of deep, almost outlandish magnetism. The amazing grace of his wings — although by the time I met him they were already black, of course . . .”

Barbatos, who seems to have a sense for when things are going to dissolve into unrelenting exaltation of his Lord’s most trusted officer and friend, smiles discreetly at Simeon and pushes forward a plate of some truly complicated looking pastries. He picks one up, fascinated by the spiral. Almost an unlabeled Sigillum Dei. 

He takes a bite. The balance is phenomenal; tart and refreshing and sweet. (More than he’d like, normally, but that’s no fault of the demons). He lets the flavour rest on his tongue while he listens with concealed mirth to the Demon Prince’s panegyric, falling so familiarly rote that he seems to have forgotten his audience. 

He recognizes it, after a fashion. The ardent appreciation, the fanatic praise. The site of the Morning Star’s worship has only moved from one temple to another.

When the Prince pauses for breath, Simeon takes his opportunity. “It sounds like he hasn’t changed at all.”

Diavolo starts, surprised into awareness. Reaches with a too-strong grip towards his teacup and is only saved from cracking it by Barbatos’ intervention. 

“Well,” he frowns, swallowing a mouthful of tea. “I don’t believe that can be true.” 

* * *

The first time he receives the text, it’s a surprise. 

He’s in the middle of the school grounds, reclining on a bench placed strategically in the gardens. He’d borrowed a couple of books from the school library; much lauded Devildom authors on literature that would never be allowed in the Celestial Realms. It might, if one considered it too long, be an act of rebellion. But no one outside of Luke is going to be overly concerned with his reading material, and for the moment Luke isn’t here.

The chiming of his D.D.D. is disorientingly loud. He lets his finger mark his place, sits up ramrod straight and only just remembers that he isn’t required to stand to attention. It takes him a moment to find the device, tucked somewhere in the pockets of his pants. And then another embarrassing minute while he fumbles with the screen, trying to determine how exactly he can read his messages.

Barbatos: I’m afraid my Lord has a singularly subjective view of the matter we were discussing last night. 

Simeon: YES

Simeon: BUT ITS NICE TO KNOW LUCIFER IS APPROPRIATE IN THE DEVILDOM TWO

Simeon: I PUSH WISH I COULD SEE WHAT HE REALLY LIKES

Barbatos: Push wish what?

Simeon: I JUST WISH I COULD SEA WHAT HES REALLY LIKE

Barbatos: Ah

Barbatos: I have some free time next week.

Barbatos: Would you like to have some tea?

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“The humans will be arriving soon.”

“Yes, I gathered.” Simeon picks up a rolling pin left on the counter and deposits it carefully in the sink. “I wonder why they’re the last to arrive. Surely they need the most time to acclimate?”

“They shouldn’t be bringing humans here at all!” Luke says, impassioned. He slams a small fist down on the table, and the mixing bowl clatters, upset. Simeon’s hand goes over the young angel’s, his expression benevolent. “Luke.”

“Sorry,” he says, effectively chastised. “But it’s too dangerous. And they’re going to be surrounded by,” here his voice grows lower, like he’s afraid of being overheard, “ _demons_.” 

Simeon’s smile doesn’t stutter, but he holds the urge to laugh. Luke hasn’t quite managed to come to terms with the realities of the exchange program yet, given his constant objections to literally every facet of it. He starts the water, washing with easy strokes while the angel mixes aggressively beside him. “Is that why you’re making all these cookies? To help welcome them?”

“No!” he protests, but the flush high on his cheeks gives him away. “I just wanted to see what the kitchen was like. And since I’m going to be here instead of reporting to Michael, I thought I could use this time constructively. To practice.”

“How diligent of you,” Simeon says. He slots utensils into the drying rack and listens to the angel expound enthusiastically upon Michael’s many virtues. It’s so familiar — didn’t he have this conversation just the other day — that it’s easy to fall into the rhythm of agreeing and engaging without effort.

“What do you think they’ll be like?”

He’s startled into active listening by a direct question. He turns, letting his hair fall just short of his eyes. “The humans?”

“Yes,” Luke responds, but with a face that clearly reads _who else_.

“I’m sure they’ll be very impressive.” He clears flour off the table as Luke moves to the trays. A neat line of perfectly spaced, perfectly round, consistent drops of dough mark every greased surface. If he dedicates himself so thoroughly for the duration of the exchange, his pastry skill might grow to rival Uriel’s. “After all, not just anyone could survive down here.”

Luke nods like this is wisdom, despite being obvious logic. _Almost_ preens with the implied compliment. “Of course. They must have picked them very carefully.”

“It’s kind of you to be so concerned.” Simeon shakes his hands, and all dust flies off his gloves, the particles nearly apologetic for the offense. “Now, how long in the oven?”

* * *

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Simeon parrots, because _that is what you say_ , even if he isn’t sure what to make of this man in front of him, full of magic and nearly burning with it. Every inhale is slightly acrid, a faint char that never quite goes away. “My name is Simeon. And this, here, is Luke.”

He puts his hand on Luke’s shoulder, keeps him from turning in place at the sheer insult of a human so _steeped_ in demon touch that their smell is indistinguishable. Luke scrunches up his nose (impolite, and if Simeon’s grip against his bone grows tighter Luke doesn’t betray the touch), and says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“So you two will be my roommates in Purgatory Hall. I’ll be in your care.” Solomon doesn’t quite bow, but he makes the sketch of one, an arm folded at his waist. Simeon mirrors the movement, nearly a parody.

This seems to amuse the man, eyes lighting too bright to be the overhead flourescents. “You’re a little different than I expected.”

“Well,” Simeon says, recalling with a flash an old, _old_ story, “you can’t expect all angels to be the same. And Michael might be something of a special case.”

“YOU!” Luke exclaims suddenly. “It’s you!”

Solomon tilts his head, laughing interest showing. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I would have remembered another angel.”

“You’re the one that Michael . . .” his face sours, as he tries to reconcile the demonic with that half-remembered blessing. “I didn’t think you’d be like this at all.”

“And I didn’t think angels could be this rude.” But he isn’t offended, even as Simeon squeezes the young angel again in warning. 

“Please forgive him. He’s still quite young by our standards, and he doesn’t have any experience with things outside of the Celestial Realm. This is a very generous learning opportunity for him.”

“Simeon!” he mutters, squirming, but Simeon only turns his placid smile down in his direction and he bites his tongue. 

“It is for me as well.” Solomon extends his hand, and Simeon stares at it for a beat before he remembers the convention. Takes it delicately and shakes it, this stranger’s heat bleeding through his glove. “I look forwards to learning _many_ things during our stay.” 

He offers the same gesture to Luke, who takes it with grudging curiosity, imitating the movements with a touch too much enthusiasm. And presents a flawless smile that shutters his face.

“Let’s be friends.”

* * *

Simeon inhales deeply. He doesn’t need to breathe, of course, but he finds the exercise can be relaxing. And besides, it smells so _good_ here. Not at all like it does in the Celestial Realm; it's different and sharper. Hot and urgent and _dangerous_. 

It’s intoxicating. 

He meanders over to a flower, bright purple and speckled with pinpricks of light. His hands flex where they’re clasped behind his back. He wonders what the petals feel like. Barbatos is already far ahead of him, his steps sure against the even cobblestones set into the grass. It would be so easy to lift a finger and just . . . touch. 

But it’s a painless urge to swallow.

“Thank you for having me,” Simeon starts, once he’s caught up with the butler’s stride. He smiles, because _that is what you do_ , even if he feels mildly uncomfortable to be walking into the Palace gardens without the Prince present. “I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time.”

“Please don’t worry,” Barbatos replies, a perfectly cordial return. “I would not have extended the invitation if it would have been a bother.”

Simeon suspects that this is lip-service, but he knows better than to pursue. Instead he stands off to the side, waiting for further instructions. It feels far too presumptive to simply take a seat, even if he can already see the tea service laid out on an adjacent table. 

Barbatos considers him for a moment, then pulls out a chair, bowing slightly over it. Simeon starts, internally horrified. “Please, don’t go to any trouble on my account. Especially not on your day off.” He can hear the contradiction even as he says it, and lets the wince pass privately, invisible and twice as damaging. “I just didn’t want to assume—”

“No one else will be using the grounds today,” Barbatos assures him, still holding out the chair. Simeon debates whether or not it would be ruder to take the other seat, or more imposition to accept his service. He defaults to what he understands is the lesser offense, and sits in the proffered chair. Barbatos relaxes, only slightly, and moves across from him. His hand is already reaching for the teapot before he's settled down.

“Thank you for arranging everything today,” Simeon says, going through the steps of formal etiquette in his mind. 

Barbatos already has the cups filled, is arranging pastries on a delicate china plate. The crest of the Demon Prince is gilded in sparking, glowing red on every surface. “It was no trouble at all.”

He knows for a fact that this is untrue. Takes a deep breath of unfamiliar perfumes and thinks _Tell me tell me tell me_ and feels guilt sing in his veins like the burn of a fresh cut. “Would it be callous of me to start right away?”

Barbatos inclines his head, but Simeon can read the nuances of relief. “I didn’t think an angel would be so concerned with gossip.” 

“I’m not asking for anything unsavoury,” Simeon says, as though this needed clarification. He cradles his hands around the teacup and lets the warmth travel through all those layers to his skin. “Just an innocent question.” This blend is different today; smoking and hissing like fire meeting the ocean. Small droplets arc over the rim, diving towards his gloves before they reconsider and divert. “Is he happy here?”

That elicits enough of a reaction from him it could almost be considered surprise. 

“I see.” Barbatos shifts upwards to reach the serving platter, arranges the sugar bowl and milk jugs to be within easy reach. Simeon is struck by the wholly absurd urge to _tease_ him; is he meant to sweeten his own tea? He swallows the impulse with his first sip and the liquid _burns_ on its way down his throat. “And why not ask him yourself?”

Simeon doesn't flinch, but his gloves twist and catch on the curlicued edges of the table. He stills, unwinds from point of contact, tracking backwards like he’s following the delineated steps of a program. Mechanical and precise. These gloves have remained immaculate for nearly thousands of years — since the very day he received them, a generous gift — he won’t let less than a week in another realm be their ruin. He smooths the fabric back over his elbows, focuses on the motion so he doesn’t have to remember the ire in the ~~angel~~ demon’s eyes. “Do you think he would be honest?”

“Hmm.” Barbatos reaches for his own tea, takes a long sip, black. “What a curious thing to ask.”

“You’ve known him now far longer than I have,” Simeon says.

For some reason the thought seems to entertain him. “At the very least, more recently.” He pauses, remains perfectly motionless as he considers, and Simeon can suddenly see clouds and halos, golden gates and feathered wings and feel the unusually constricting weight of ceremony and decorum. He takes another sip and lets the bold flavours hold in his mouth, imagines that he is in a clouded garden, courting a familiar audience. 

The strange spell is broken with the silence. “I don’t know if this is something I can answer for him.” 

“Surely you must have some suspicion,” Simeon tries, dispelling the vision. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you what you’re looking for.” He seems contrite. But Simeon can recognize the closing of the guard, a man about to take up his defense and deny, deny, deny. Feign innocence, feign ignorance, take every diplomatic measure.

After all, angels tend towards truth. Genuine and kind. But all this means is that they have mastered deflection, the careful shielding of their thoughts, the ability to hide within their minds. A universal fact: peace and goodness are hard to maintain when people speak too freely.

It's a behaviour that's become easy for him to spy.

“I see.” Simeon reaches for the teapot, catches the minute tensing in the demon’s arms as he schools himself back into stillness. Ignores the intrusive thought that Barbatos would not look foreign among angels if only he had wings. “Then I will have to settle for the pleasure of your company.” 

But his words sound vaguely hollow to them both. 


	3. Chapter 3

Save for that first day, he’s never outright hostile. Only cold, only distant. Simeon makes an effort to remain polite, offering safe, trivial greetings when he passes him in the hall or out in town. _Good morning Lucifer_ , _Good afternoon_ , _Hello, Nice to see you, Goodbye_. Pretends not to feel the growing disappointment when the ~~angel~~ demon barely inclines his head in acknowledgment. 

~~Talk to me talk to me talk to me~~

The most engagement he can boast is the day he’s introduced to the human student in his charge, a young innocent so wholly unequipped to deal with life in the Devildom the shock almost gives him whiplash. He keeps the immediate questions locked, tight, so scandalized by the absurd negligence of the Prince that he nearly voices dissent powerful enough to start a war. Defaults to simple banalities that can run in the background of his mind while every thought races with potential consequence. 

Lucifer can _sense_ it in him. He’s unchanged, like that, can still sniff out the dissidence so acutely it’s like he’s catching a fleeting breeze in both hands. And while the expression on his face remains unchanged (he can hardly threaten the Prince’s exchange students in front of the man himself), there’s a clear warning in his eyes backed by the remembered testament of retribution. 

He stalks off, neatly tethered to his Lord’s side, the threat of Simeon’s thoughts no longer primed. 

Simeon maintains a careful mask as he turns to the human, tries to telegraph benevolent empathy, safe haven and protection. He can sense it from them: an encompassing _goodness_ so intrinsic that he feels panic starting in his core. A full year here . . . they’re going to be _killed_. He wonders, idly, if it would be considered rude or presumptive to call home, tell them to prepare a place for a lamb led to slaughter. 

The human beams at him. “I’ve never met an angel before. I’m honoured.”

“Then I’m honoured to be one of your first.” The human doesn’t extend a hand so he doesn’t either, settling instead for a gentle nod in their direction. His face is careful, serene. Hiding the almost hopeless thought: _You’ll be meeting many soon_.

* * *

“Barbatos!” 

The demon stops, casting a glance curiously over his shoulder. Simeon smiles, offers a cursory wave. To be perfectly honest, he isn’t sure why he’d called out in the first place. They haven’t spent much time together since that one stilted afternoon, conversations reduced to half-coherent texts (on his part) and considerate school notices from the butler. 

Perhaps he’s been thinking of Lucifer too often, lately. Or Luke’s increasing kitchen use is making him remember the flaky perfection of whatever pastries Barbatos had offered during tea at the Palace. 

~~It can’t be the strange comfort of his presence, the default to protocol that makes him think of cloudless skies and ceremony.~~

But he finds himself seeking out the steward. A flash of teal in the corner of his eyes and he’s turning, tracking the movement. Distracted from his train of thought, a falter in his step that has Luke tugging concerned at the edges of his cape. 

“Simeon?” Barbatos walks over, a curious tilt to his head. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, no, I don’t need anything. I only wanted to say hello.”

“Hello.” Instant and accommodating. He folds a hand in front of his waist, always at attention. “Since I have you, how have you been enjoying the exchange program so far?”

“It’s been . . . illuminating.” Paradoxically so. Angels are their own source of light, but he’s never been so long in a realm without the sun. Luke has managed it the best, his manifestation of his physical form still in its nebulous beginnings and more open to change. 

Simeon is continuing to adjust.

“I’m glad. I hope you feel you’ve been getting the full benefits of the experience.”

“Of course. Please extend my thanks to Lord Diavolo.”

Simeon relaxes as they talk, words falling into trivial patterns. They live in a state of similar, familiar formality and at least here he always knows how to find his footing. But. 

He wants to _talk_ to him, hold a _real_ conversation without the barrier of decorum that holds him still. And. There’s something else, lurking just beneath the clouded conscious of his mind that’s begging to be voiced. He just can’t still the turbulence long enough to identify its shape. 

He finally notices Luke, almost quivering beside him, struck mute. When Simeon turns he can nearly see stars projecting from the spotlights of his eyes. He extends an arm to include him in the scope of their superficial conversation. “Luke, you remember Barbatos.”

“Please let me be your student!” 

It’s a startling exclamation. Simeon watches indulgently as Barbatos considers the smaller angel. “I beg your pardon? Are your classes here unfulfilling?”

“NO!” Luke flushes scarlet, then tries to backtrack, arms flailing. “I mean, the classes are okay! I just. Michael keeps saying that you’re the best pastry chef in all three realms, and after we had tea the other day I understand what he means!” The words come out all in one breath, followed by a muttered, “ _Even if you **are** a demon._”

Simeon doesn’t sigh, but he turns to Barbatos and tries to convey apology. The demon doesn’t seem particularly insulted. Just stands with a hand at his chin, eyes appraising. “You’d like to learn to . . . bake? From me.”

“Yes.” Luke is steadily getting redder; a remarkable feat for a being without any actual blood. Simeon watches, mildly impressed.

Barbatos smiles in a way that changes the structure of his entire face, his posture going soft. It’s like the rigid lines of a thousand years simply fall away. A cathedral returned to its first and pristine glory. Simeon is so startled by the difference he doesn’t catch himself staring.

“I’m afraid I have many duties to attend to, but if you don’t mind learning while I prepare the pastries for the castle—”

“YES!” Luke clears his throat, averting his eyes with embarrassment. “I mean, yes, please. I’d really, really like that.”

Barbatos nods at him, looking almost enthusiastic. “Alright. I’ll send you a message when you can come over.” He inclines his head before he turns away, and Luke watches him go almost reverently. His eyes are still shining when he turns to Simeon. 

“You should have told me you were friends!” 

* * *

It’s nearly another week before he properly sees him again. 

He catches him by chance, passing through the gardens. Uncommonly alone. Solomon was walking towards him from the opposite direction, (the density of his magic so invasive he doesn’t have to see him to know), but. He never called out so Simeon feels it isn’t breaking any conventions of common courtesy to ignore him, cut straight across the immaculate lawn and stand beside the other man. 

“Lucifer! It’s good to see you.” 

The ~~ang~~ demon doesn’t look up, perusing the flower beds with a strangely intense focus. “Simeon.” 

A vocal response; more than he’s been getting so far. He tries not to let the small victory sway him, but he feels his light flaring briefly. He tamps it, harsh. “What are you doing here?”

“. . . Looking at the flowers.” Terse, as always, but not yet dismissive. Simeon takes his opportunities as they come. 

“They’re very beautiful. I’ve never seen varieties like these before. Do you know their names?”

“I’m afraid not.” Lucifer still won’t face him. Simeon can see his mouth, pressing hard into a line. Ah, he’s already reached the end of his patience. Almost a full twenty seconds, today. “If you don’t have any pressing matters, please don’t bother me. I’m exceedingly busy.”

“Of course,” Simeon says mildly, even if he means _Are you?_ He inclines his head and steps away, turns back to continue towards the east wing of the school. ~~Finally he’s getting _somewhere_.~~ He can sense Solomon, just in his periphery, watching the exchange with too much interest.

It doesn’t take long for the sorcerer to catch up, long legs closing the distance with ease. Simeon pretends not to notice the assessing glances he levels at him from his side. Says hello like that will help him manage the direction of this impending conversation.

“Lucifer doesn’t like me,” Solomon says, with a casual sort of air. Unprompted. Simeon refocuses his image, keeps his face as sweetly mild as always. Solomon isn’t a _bad_ person, necessarily, and he’s certainly a good roommate. But the man has an insatiable thirst for knowledge that makes it immediately apparent why he and the avatar of wrath get along so well. The only difference is, he will chase it through whatever avenues are available, and Simeon is increasingly wary of becoming one of them.

Simeon smiles sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright.” He shrugs, and nothing changes in his expression but he can almost _taste_ the curiosity. “I know why.”

Simeon only pats him on the shoulder. Then walks away and lets the implication of the sorcerer’s words fall leaden to the floor behind him.   
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much more but my file just disappeared? HAHA I'm dying.  
> So it'll be. A while.

It’s a nice day out. A strange thing to think, _day_ , when every hour is covered by the velvet of perpetual night. Simeon glances upwards and catalogs unfamiliar constellations, wonders if they’re an ornament picked by the Prince himself. If so, he has exceptionally good taste.

Technically it’s early evening. Luke is usually done with his pastry lessons at around this time, and Simeon likes to pick him up to ensure he’s safe on the walk back to the dorms. Solomon offers to make the trip on some days, but Simeon always demurs, tells him that he can’t ask him to take on his responsibilities. And that is true, to an extent. 

The walks through the Devildom allow him small moments of introspection, to appreciate where exactly he finds himself after so many centuries cycling through the same routines. It’s oddly refreshing, not to feel the weight of ceremony laid like a mantle over his shoulders. There’s the odd threat of some disgruntled demons, of course, but most are rational enough not to incur the Prince’s wrath by affecting the exchange. 

Besides, angels are hardly the temptation that a single human soul presents. 

He takes a different route each time. It seems a shame to create routine where it’s unnecessary, and there’s still so much he hasn’t seen. He passes through one of the larger public parks, benches arranged at appropriate intervals and situated so the flowers are shown to best effect. It’s surprisingly peaceful, here. Nature, silence, that soft perfume. And there’s a breeze, ghosting lightly over the bare skin of his shoulders. He closes his eyes and imagines what it would feel like to soar beneath the star-studded sky. 

Luke is excitable as ever when he arrives, face aglow with absurd satisfaction. His arms are always laden with immaculately tied boxes — the fruits of all his labour. Simeon had been surprised the first time he’d seen the volume of the treats, voiced his clear concerns. “You know we won’t be able to finish all that.”

“Beel can have some then!” Luke had burst out, struggling to balance everything. Simeon had blinked, slow, and tried to decide if there had been any tell-tale signs of the hiss that usually accompanied Luke’s forced acknowledgment of a demon. No, nothing. Barbatos must be a better influence on him that he’d anticipated. 

“The ones in the blue box are for you,” Barbatos had said, watching Luke juggle it all and looking mildly entertained. 

“I warrant my own box?”

“You don’t like sweets, correct? I had Luke cut the sugar in some of his batches so you could try them too.” 

Simeon is startled. Stares into green eyes more impenetrable than Lucifer’s good graces. “Yes. Thank you very much.”

He doesn’t bother asking him how he knows. It was probably apparent from the very first; a demon so acutely observant Simeon suddenly wonders if all his attempts to hide have been anything other than futile. He inclines his head, takes half of the burden from Luke’s arms and steps out of the doorway. “I appreciate you taking care of Luke like this.”

“It’s no trouble,” Barbatos says, automatic. But this time it feels true.

* * *

Simeon fiddles with his D.D.D., whiling away the time while he loiters in the common rooms of Purgatory Hall. He’s gotten much better at using the confounded device. At the very least, that’s what his roommates have told him, nearly lauding his increased literacy as though he’s overcome some insurmountable hurdle. He recognizes that he should probably feel slighted, but the sense of relieved accomplishment is dulling the insult. 

Simeon: Hello Barbatos

Simeon: I just wanted to tell you that Luke was very impressed with you.

Simeon: Although I can see why he calls you the beast pastry chef in the three realms.

Simeon: Best pastry chef

Barbatos: Thank you. Please pass along my gratitude.

Barbatos: But I’m sure I couldn’t possibly be deserving of that title.

Simeon: You nuts be.

Simeon: Must

Simeon: He really didn’t want to give the award to a demon.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Simeon imagines the casual amusement on Barbatos’ face. 

Barbatos: Then I suppose I am honoured. 

* * *

They fall into an easy rhythm. Say hello when they pass each other in the halls, make idle conversation as Luke is crushed under the burden of all his sweets. Simeon feels the beginnings of some strange kinship, unexpected but not unwelcome. He could use more friends, here.

Here. He marvels again at being someplace so alien, every mundane occurrence providing novelty. He would enjoy it more, he’s sure, if only everything wasn’t quite so _much_. He’s tired of the crush of demons, the way the air always feels like it’s eating at him, dissolving as acid. Seeks out spaces of calm and quiet so he can catch his metaphorical breath. He doesn’t realize he’s going out of his way; detours, circuitous routes. Wandering down strange hallways and through side passages, eager for just a little bit _less_. 

So he finds him entirely by accident in a back courtyard, a shovel in one hand. He isn’t inclined towards the ground, and his uniform is spotless, so Simeon can’t guess at what he’s doing. Burying a body, perhaps? And the thought it so preposterous and incredibly believable that for a moment he isn’t sure where to look. 

Barbatos turns to him and politely inclines his head. “Hello, Simeon. What are you doing here?” 

“Getting lost, I’m afraid.” Simeon gestures to the dirty tool. “What about you?”

Barbatos smiles, the usually bland set of his expression gone easy and relaxed. “My Lord has been wanting to do something with this disused area. I believe he was hoping to install a fountain or a garden of some sort. I’m merely here doing an initial survey.”

“I see.” He barely takes a moment’s thought before he says, “Would you like some help?”

If he hadn’t seen so many shades of the butler’s impassive face, Simeon wouldn’t have noticed the slight twitch of _something_ not quite blank. Surprised? Perplexed? He can’t name the expression, gone too fast for him to catalog. Barbatos almost bows, clear reflex. “I couldn’t ask that of one of my Lord’s guests.”

“You haven’t.” Simeon smiles at him, feels the edges of his mouth turn up with an unfamiliar sharpness that might be (if you squinted) considered impish. “Perhaps I’m simply looking for something to do while I keep you company.”

The demon appears almost disoriented. Shakes his head with an angle that’s bordering wry as he smiles at Simeon. It’s . . . distractingly distinct from the way he normally looks, the curve of his lips pulled higher than usual. “Well, I won’t stop you from finding your own diversion.”

“It might help if you could tell me what you’re doing. So I don’t get in the way, of course.”

“Of course.” But his eyebrows are raised beneath his fringe, clear conspiracy. “Well, I only have to take the measurements of the plot, overturn the earth in the three distinct sections that have been marked off, keep a small sample and then take inventory of the current plantings. My work shouldn’t affect you too much at all.”

Simeon wanders farther in. It’s dark everywhere, of course, but it’s _so_ dark here. Every side is blocked in by the high walls of the school, any light seeping in the spare gift of lit hallways through the windows. He doesn’t stumble, of course, (his feet don’t _actually_ touch the ground), but he can only imagine how difficult it would be to navigate. He could let a bit of his natural light escape, but he’s noticed that it tends to make demons shield their eyes. “Seems simple enough. Although I’m afraid I don’t know the classifications of the native plant life.”

“Really?” Barbatos hums thoughtfully. “A glaring gap in your Devildom learning. I’ll have to take the matter up with Prince Diavolo when I deliver my report.”

“Do you think it’s so important?”

“Naturally. One of the tenets of the program is ensuring a well-rounded education.” 

Simeon turns to look at him. He wouldn’t mind the extra lessons, to be perfectly honest, but he can’t imagine the other exchange students will be too pleased with an increased workload. The butler’s face is perfectly even; as unreadable as an angel’s. (Well, an _experienced_ angel’s. Luke’s every thought still telegraphs clear on his face). 

“I can’t tell if you’re being sincere,” Simeon finally admits. He’s marking out the paces along one wall with his pure sense of space; waiting for some indication of Barbato's specified units before he converts the findings. 

“Hm. I wonder.” The demon marks something down in a notepad. “How many kus along that side?”

“Fourteen point thirty-five. I’d rather not be held responsible for any further school-related stress. Especially for the humans.” 

Barbatos puts down his pen. “Do you really need my explicit assurance that I’m joking?”

“Just on this point, if you please.” Simeon bends towards the first marked spot, digging direct into the ground with his gloved hands. Barbatos watches this with some bemusement. 

“Then I’m not going to suggest it to my Lord. Of course.” He tucks the pad somewhere into his jacket. “Do you intend to dig with your bare hands?”

“I’m wearing gloves,” Simeon says guilelessly. 

“Ah, I’m sorry, I forget how out of touch you are. It’s a turn of phrase, you see.” 

Simeon is startled into a quiet laugh. “Aren’t we of a similar age?”

“Who’s to say?” But Barbatos is _grinning_ when he walks over, unstoppers a vial direct beneath his cupped hands. Simeon blinks, does a double-take, but the wicked curl is gone. “Considering the evidence . . .”

“Evidence?”

“ _My_ text messages are coherent, at least.”

He doesn’t think twice. Just opens his palms and dumps the dirt messy over the spotless sleeves of the butler’s jacket and laughs; something strange and real in this private space.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s something incorrect about him. As though he’s seen more years than time.

He can’t quite put his finger on what it is that makes him think this. It’s more a _feeling_. Perhaps an instinct that he attributes to an angel’s ability to see through to the truth. He stands, back straight, and tries not to stare too hard at the demon bustling around the busy kitchen, Luke a constant underfoot.

He’d thought that he might be close in age, but sometimes . . . Barbatos will make an offhand comment, his shoulders will suddenly drop, the lines of his face will etch; shadows becoming cracks. The green of those irises so often clouded, like he’s seeing things incongruous with this reality. If eyes are the windows to the soul, his are too heavily fortified to ever risk being breached. Simeon wonders why. _What is the cost of knowing him?_

“Oh no!” He’s interrupted from his musings by a shout from the shorter angel, staring despondently into a large mixing bowl. Simeon looks over, notes a strangely tall pile of something granular visible over the rim. “I’m sorry, Barbatos, I dropped the salt canister into this batch.” His face twists with real regret. “We’re going to have to scrap it.”

“It’s alright.” Barbatos reaches, like he’s going to _pat him on the head_ , but his arm withdraws before he physically connects. “As it happens, I was using that canister to hold sugar while I was reorganizing the kitchen. Just increase the serving.”

“Really?” Luke wants to look suspicious but his relief is too immediate. It would have been a _terrible_ waste of the Prince’s resources, regardless of whether or not he could afford it. 

“You can try it if you’d like to check.”

Luke takes a small teaspoon and dips it into the mountain. Pops it in his mouth and furrows his brow with too much concentration. His face clears instantly. “It _is_ sugar! Wow, Barbatos, that was really lucky!”

“It certainly was, Luke,” Simeon interjects, instead of saying _Be careful_. His smile is at just the right shade of diminished for Luke to read it as casual instead of cautionary. 

“Simeon! What are you doing here?” His voice carries the cadence of a pout. Not that Simeon can blame him. He’s been visiting the Prince’s kitchens perhaps too often lately, under the guise of ‘checking up on him’. Barbatos, for his part, doesn’t look the least surprised to see him.

“Lord Diavolo invited me to see his statue gallery.” Simeon smiles, watching as Luke eyes him with clear skepticism that he doesn’t voice.

Barbatos speaks from somewhere by the sinks, too focused on whatever is in the basin to turn around. “That’s right. I recall you having a discussion with him the other day about your interest in sculpture. He was most excited to find someone else who might appreciate his collection.”

“I’ve been told you’re something of a connoisseur yourself, Barbatos. Lord Diavolo said you’re among the most knowledge demons on culture and history.”

“He does me too great a service.”

“You say that about everything.” Luke says suddenly, frowning. Simeon chuckles. He’s not wrong. 

“I was hoping you would join us. I should have realized.” It’s the first time he’s forgotten one of Luke’s lessons. He’s usually so good about this, so careful, so _responsible_. 

_You are an exemplary angel, This is the highest honour, ~~We know we can trust you. You won’t let us down.~~_

Something shudders in his shoulders, not quite a spasm, more the gentle disalignment of his physical form. Luke frowns up at him, but Barbatos is still focused on his task. The faucet flashing on for just a beat, the brisk fall of water. His hands, twisting with impossible efficiency to clean or cut or manage. “I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged today.” 

Simeon almost misses the droll tone of his voice, the unfamiliar sensation of disappointment dropping through him with distracting clarity. “That’s too bad.”

“But if Luke and I can manage to finish in a timely manner, perhaps we can join you.”

Simeon smiles at him, a watt too bright in the dim enclosure of the kitchen. Feels his face contorting in a half-remembered configuration, eyelids dipping low. Barbatos raises a brow, the promise in his expression translated to something like amusement. 

“I would love that.” 

Luke is frowning at him, fiercely enough for Simeon to be a kind of shocked. “Is something the matter, Luke?”

He flushes to be caught, instantly averting his gaze. “N-n-no! Nothing’s wrong. But aren’t you keeping Lord Diavolo waiting?”

Simeon turns, eyes scanning the kitchen for a clock. Strangely enough, there doesn’t seem to be one. Barbatos catches his intent and smiles, tilting his head mildly. “It’s just after five-forty,” he says, with a perfect, serene confidence.

“Oh.” He feels the furrow in his brow, almost troubled. He’d come early, he’s quite sure of it, so it’s disconcerting to feel that time has slipped away from him so fast. “Thank you, Luke. You’re right.” He nods, once, a casual goodbye. “Wait for me to walk you home.”

“I _know_!” He huffs, doesn’t fold his arms although Simeon catches the slight twitch. “Anyway, I’ll finish fast and we’ll go look at statues with you.”

Simeon smiles. “I’ll look forward to your company.”

“And this one was commissioned by my father!” The Prince indicates a statue with a surprisingly gentle sweep of his well muscled arm. The piece in question is all broad lines, startlingly grotesque. Intricate tessellation covers every flat plane. “He was growing tired of portraits, so this replaced one year’s baby pictures.”

“How unconventional,” Simeon says, smiling politely.

Diavolo _beams_. “The resemblance is quite impressive, isn’t it?”

In a way. He doesn’t know if he can quite make out which portion is supposed to resemble a face. “The craftsmanship is incredible.” 

“If you enjoyed that, I procured some of this artist’s earlier works too. A _fascinating_ series of studies where he tried to marry stellated polyhedra with eldritch abstracts. They were a bit difficult for the human exchange student to perceive . . . I’m afraid staring straight at them caused a very interesting reaction—”

“They started spontaneously bleeding, my Lord.” 

Simeon doesn’t start at the voice (no one has managed to sneak up on him in _centuries_ ), but the sentence makes him frown. Alarmed without showing it, although he suspects the sentiment hasn't passed in secret. “Bleeding?”

“From their nose. A harmless human physiological response, I was assured.”

“Yes, I was informed they were fine, once they returned to the House,” Diavolo interjects. “Although unfortunately, we had to cut the tour quite short. We didn’t even get to the _truly_ revolutionary pieces — some of my favourites, in fact, almost a retrospective of the more inventive demonic works—”

“What were you showing Simeon, my Lord?” Barbatos cuts in, stepping slightly forwards to shield him from Luke’s increasingly horrified expression. 

“My statue! From I think, oh, my four hundredth birthday?”

“That one? It was earlier than that, I believe. No later than two hundred and fifty.”

“Ah, yes! You must be right, look at how young I am.”

Luke’s mouth shuts, glancing almost comically between the statue and the Prince. Clearly unable to find him in the strange angles of art. “What do—”

“You really _did_ finish early.” Simeon smiles down at him. “How impressive. You must have improved quite a bit.”

“Oh! I. Of course! I’ve been working hard,” Luke manages, turning red. Fidgeting in place, pleased by the praise. _Cute_. Simeon hasn’t seen _that_ reaction in a while.

“He’s an exemplary student,” Barbatos says. His eyes are fond. “Full marks.”

“I’m being graded?!” 

The butler chuckles, shakes his head. “No. But I can start, if you’d like.”

“No! Or. Wait, how am I doing?”

“Oh? A dessert-based grading system? How intriguing.” Lord Diavolo is joking, of course. (He _must_ be). But Luke straightens, enticed by the possibilities. “I’ll have to consider it.”

“What an excellent idea, my Lord.” 

It seems like they’ve strayed from their initial exercise, the statues suddenly forgotten. That’s too bad, Simeon can see a sculpture at the far end of the hall that’s been drawing his eye since his arrival. Still. Perhaps this isn’t the best cultural excursion for the younger angel. He wonders if he can secure another invitation for a later date.

Barbatos guides the party smoothly out a side door as they continue talking, their whimsical new educational framework the main topic of conversation. Takes them down a corridor, through an entryway, along a darkened hallway where the walls are heavy with paintings. 

“I didn’t realize you were so talented! Would you be willing . . .” Diavolo is engaging with Luke, head bent low to hear the angel’s answers, Barbatos watching mildly. Are they still talking about food? Simeon hasn’t been paying attention, he realizes, easily distracted by the artwork passing either side. The subtle glints of raised paint, the metallic sheen of what must be real gold. One frame holds a painting that shimmers, every colour glittering, fine. It almost hurts to look at.

The farther along they move, the more increasingly abstract the work. Simeon has noticed that this seems to be the Demon Prince’s preference, although he can’t say if this is personal or a more general marking of demonic taste. He walks slowly, catalogs the pieces on display. Fine lines, rigid geometry that progresses to more liberated movement, circular swirling forms. 

He almost misses it, interest only piqued when he glances back, sees it in his periphery. The rest of the party is not _too_ much farther ahead, Barbatos bridging the gap between his master and his lagging guest. Surely it wouldn’t be too discourteous if he paused, for just a moment. 

The painting in front of him is lit with low light, an angled sconce in the wall that protects against direct illumination. He leans in, peers closely. Strong brushstrokes, almost careless in appearance, gestural. And yet. From a near distance he can make out tiny figures, impossible details in the spattering of paint. 

“Do you like it?”

Barbatos has dropped behind the others, has come to stand beside him. He makes no move towards the work. 

Simeon considers the piece carefully. Steps back, so he can watch it resolve before his eyes from vibrant, haphazard points to a startlingly serene landscape. 

“It’s amazingly intricate. All these distinct, minuscule parts becoming a cohesive picture.” Simeon takes a breath. “It’s phenomenal.” 

“Really?” Barbatos tilts his head. Offers no opinion of his own, only considers him with quiet interest.

“What do you think of it?”

“I’ve never particularly cared for this one. Too much is happening at once.” He lifts a gloved hand, extends one finger over a unique stroke. “And yet, if you remove a single aspect, the entire picture dissolves. Even the smallest thing has so much importance.”

He’s right. Obscuring barely a few centimetres of paint destroys some critical link, his eyes no longer able to make sense of the pattern. 

“How fascinating.” Simeon takes his chin in his hands; a learned gesture from observing his human roommate. “The artist must have an unbelievable sense of how everything fit together.” A pause, while he lets his gaze rove. “ I could spend a good deal of time just studying this one work.”

“I’m happy you enjoy it so much.”

Is that sarcasm? Barbatos delivers every line with such perfect consistency it’s a little difficult to tell. He continues to stare forwards, eyes not straying towards the demon at his side. To check his expression is an exercise in futility, and. It would feel a little like admitting defeat. 

“Do you mean to do so right now?” Barbatos finally asks, when Simeon remains in place. 

He smiles, tilts his head as though he’s entertaining the idea. “I might consider it. Would that be a problem?”

“Not at all. I’ll have your meal carted out to you here. Please wait a moment while I find you a chair.”

“Simeon!” Luke calls, before he can decide how far he should indulge this whim. (Barbatos _knows_ he isn't serious, of course. But there is the danger that he might actually follow through). “What are you doing?”

He and the Demon Prince are standing in the entrance to the hall, backlit by the stronger lights of the wing’s foyer. Reduced to silhouettes the juxtaposition turns comical, the small angel dwarfed by Diavolo’s regal stature. They are, for a moment, startlingly indistinct. Simeon blinks. “I’ll be right there!” 

He turns to Barbatos, who offers a polite little bow, sardonic. “Shall I take it that you won’t be dining in the hallway this evening?”

He laughs. “Maybe next time.”

* * *

Simeon looks away from the window, pensive expression evaporating at the instant of motion. Solomon is standing at his door, a sleek, metal device balanced under one arm.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all.” Simeon gestures at him to come in and he strides, contained but too confident in someone else’s space. He stops where Simeon is seated, folded comfortably in the small bench against his window, the bare skin of his left arm pressed against the glass.

Solomon leans against the window with an open hand and immediately jolts backwards with a quiet laugh.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” The sorcerer flexes, moving his fingers in strange patterns as he stares down at his palm. “It’s nothing. The glass was just colder than I’d expected.”

 _Cold_. “I see.” Simeon wonders, sometimes, what that must feel like. “What can I help you with, Solomon?”

“How mean. Don’t you enjoy my company?” But his eyes are turned up at the corners, even if the rest of his face refuses to give him away. Simeon is getting better at deciphering these subtle cues. He’s joking.

“Of course.” He eyes the metallic oblong tucked against the sorcerer’s side. “But are you going to tell me you’re only in here to hang out?”

Solomon chuckles, caught out and not at all displeased. “Not exactly. I just thought the three of us might do something together tonight. It’s been a while, after all.”

“Oh?” Simeon perks up, posture growing straight. “Like what?”

And that is how they end up huddled in the common room, Solomon sprawled comfortably on the couch, Luke sitting delicately against the arm. Simeon elects to drop on the floor, settled symbolically between the two of them.

Something softly coloured and very cute plays on the screen; talking dogs and foxes. A clearly calculated selection; Luke is sitting forwards at rapt attention, the proximity of a voracious-pact collector near forgotten. Even going so far as to accept when Solomon offers him the bucket of buttered popcorn (Simeon’s contribution to tonight’s impromptu gathering). 

It’s fine for almost an hour. 

Wetness. A drop, splashing on bare skin. Simeon had been suddenly concerned that there was a leak on the floor above, but the dampness on his shoulder is just Luke, fat tears dripping down his face. Solomon is no longer watching the movie, looking at the angel with a mix of guilt and concern. Stays perfectly still until the credits roll _(The Fox and the Hound),_ then offers, clumsy, a warm hot chocolate. 

He seems relieved when he finally escapes to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Solomon says, sheepish. “I haven’t watched this movie in years. I didn’t remember how it went.”

“It was an excellent movie,” Simeon says. He leans over, closing the cupboard. “And maybe Luke will _learn_ something.”

“I wasn’t trying to force a moral lesson,” Solomon offers, looking amused. He drops a generous portion of cream into the cup. Picks up a jar that Simeon knows contains Devilish chili sauce, opens it. Simeon puts a gloved hand on his arm, gently dissuading. “Luke doesn’t like that.”

“Oh, sorry.” Puts it down. But he’s eyeing something in the spice rack and it’s making Simeon nervous. He takes the mug of hot chocolate, shielding it from Solomon’s well-meaning intervention. He should have declined when the sorcerer first offered to make Luke the drink; clear apology. They’ve cohabited long enough for him to know that drinking something Solomon had made would traumatize him far more than a story of bittersweet friendship. 

“Simeon!” Luke bursts through, eyes red but wide. He stutters in the entryway, staring at the cup in Simeon’s gloved hand. Gaze darting very obviously between the mug and the sorcerer. 

“Is that . . .” Biting off the word ‘safe’. 

“It’s finished,” Simeon says, handing it off. Luke accepts it with obvious relief, lifts it instant to his mouth. Trust: so implicit and unwavering that he doesn’t hesitate to take Simeon’s actions as assurance. 

“Would you like one?” Solomon says, turning to him. Simeon smiles easily and declines. 

“Suit yourself.” The sorcerer shrugs. Plucks an empty mug from the rack and dumps the contents of a spice bottle into the bottom of the ceramic. 

Simeon frowns. Turns with growing apprehension to the angel. 

A torrent of tears are pouring down an alarmingly coloured face. Oh. _Oh dear._


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a series of small incidents that cements things in his mind. (And two or three _incredibly_ large ones). A careful cataloging of improbabilities that adds up to a single, immutable fact. 

A handkerchief, left careless on the edge of the desk, in just the right spot to soak up the dribble of ink that cracks out of the pen in Lord Diavolo's excited grip. A cushion that tips out of white gloves before Luke comes tripping around a corner, falling nearly flat on his face. A vase lifted off for polishing right before one of the brothers tosses a wild toy, embedding in the plaster behind it. 

Simeon knows prescience when he sees it.

He also knows that he could just _ask_. No need for careless speculation — it isn't as though he thinks the question particularly rude. But.

He doesn't feel any real need to pry. 

It was a difficult thing, in the Celestial Realm. The _afterwards._ Eons of trust as immutable as atoms suddenly shattered. And the heavens had postured, had raised up their remaining ranks, shattered and limping as they were, and stated that the threat was passed. 

The younger angels had believed it. Had taken those sweet platitudes and wrapped themselves in comfort, had believed in their total strength and victory. 

The others had known better.

~~Suspicion, mistrust, every pair of eyes a searchlight, scouring, seeking out apostasy~~

He is almost jealous of Luke, naivete the guarding veil of his innocence. He is open in a way that Simeon does not remember how to be. He is an old angel ~~beyond dynasties and evolution and the first fledgling sparks of stars~~ and he remembers the inquisitions, everything just shy of more damning persecution. The artifice of procedure a thin disguise for oppression. And all of this a weak balm for the _fear_.

He has learned to keep his counsel. To let others keep theirs. 

He will not breach this soothing privacy.

* * *

“Simeon?” 

Simeon looks up from the notebook in his hand, the curl of his feathered quill snapping as he puts it down. The avatar of wrath is standing before him, with an expectant smile that lands just this side of sly. “Satan, hello. What can I do for you?”

“Solomon told me you did him a great honour last night.” His smile has grown decidedly arched. “I was wondering if you might repeat the favour for me.”

 _Ah_. There's no confusion about what he must mean. Simeon stands, smoothing one glove over the flawless white expanse of his cape. It settles against his leg, unwrinkled. "I'd be delighted. Should I go over to the House after our lessons?"

Satan laughs, waving a hand. "No need for that. I actually have them with me." Patting the low-slung messenger bag sitting at his hip. 

Simeon eyes it with interest. "Not . . . all of them, surely?"

"As it happens, I found a particularly interesting pocket space spell. Perhaps I was looking for an excuse to try it out?” 

Simeon circles his wrist. He can’t get carpal tunnel or arthritis, of course, but the memory of the evening before is weighing on his posture, forcing consistent attention so he doesn’t slouch. Satan settles the leather bottom of his bag on the tabletop, soft. It doesn’t _sound_ heavy, but. _Magic_.

“To be clear, I won’t be doing all of them.” 

“Well, I _did_ assume it would be presumptuous of me to force you to do it almost two hundred times.” He cocks a brow, flipping open the flap. “Although you must have done even more, during those early promotional periods.”

Simeon shakes his head. “I did. They gave me well over two weeks to complete them, though. And all those messages were a bit rote, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? And do I rate something more personal?”

“Of course. We’re friends, after all.” Simeon smiles, and means it. Satan pauses, arm already disappearing beyond his elbow as he reaches into his satchel. It’s barely a beat, a little hiccup of time that Simeon smooths over by settling back into his seat. Satan looks down; the briefest flash of rose on his face, like the illumination of a passing light. 

“It’s a little worn around the edges,” he says, pulling a slim volume out. He places it carefully in front of Simeon, perfectly centered. 

Simeon drags a finger down the cover, the embossed grooves of gilt lettering. This is _old_. Possibly a first edition, if the subtly uneven fading of hand-dyed leather is any indication. And. ‘Worn around the edges’ . . . Battered might be a better descriptor. There is a multitude of different coloured threads at the bindings; proof of multiple repairs. The corners rounded down to soft nubs, the pages bleached beyond yellow straight to gray. It’s been well-read. 

Something bright and soft settles in the space behind his chest. 

He carefully edges below the the hard cover, spreads to that creamy, marbled end page (here, the colours are still perfectly distinct), turns to the strange off-white of the title. Closes his eyes as a strong scent wafts off the paper; like grass and vanilla and dust. Solomon’s copy was obviously newer, still pristine in paperback, cover glossy. Holding this book open feels like holding history, and he is struck by the sudden reminder of that first stroke of black ink, the initial footstep on a great expanse. 

“Do you have any requests?” he asks, looking over at Satan beneath the uneven boundary of his bangs. 

“It’s your book.” He shrugs, deferring to him. “I’ll trust your artistic sensibilities.” 

Simeon laughs. “Well, I can doodle something if you like, but Luke tells me I don’t quite have the talent for it.”

“Up to you.” But he looks amused. 

Simeon closes his eyes, considering. Picks up the feather and sets the nib against the page. Long, looping letters, familiar motions that no longer feel lonely. 

“You have an impeccable skill with that quill.” The words are a tickle, spoken low against his ear. The butler is getting passably more quiet; one day he might actually catch him off-guard. He turns just enough to catch Barbatos squinting down at his work. “I particularly like the . . . sheep.”

“Sheep?”

“Is that what it looks like?” Simeon frowns, rotating the book. 

“Let me see.” Satan doesn’t wait, taking it ( _carefully_ ) from Simeon’s hands. Blinks once, twice. “I. No. No, it’s clearly a palanquin.” Spoken with entirely too much confidence. 

Simeon can’t help himself. The chuckle slips out, escalating until he has to close his eyes. Not quite at the same level of one of the Prince’s carefree, booming laughs but. Reflexive. Natural. 

Unrestrained.

“It was _supposed_ to be a mask.”

“Ah.”

“Luke was right.” 

Barbatos raises a brow but the context must be clear. He turns to look at Simeon, still standing at his side. “If I asked you to sign _my_ copy, would you refrain from adding any . . . abstract embellishments?”

“If you’re asking me not to doodle in your book, then I can assure you, I won’t.” He doesn’t fight the smile, lingering too long after his impromptu fit. “Did you read them, too?”

“Of course,” Barbatos says, like this should be obvious. “They’re very good.”

For some reason, the straightforward sentiment holds with unusual gravity. Echoes in his mind and makes it difficult for him to continue holding the butler’s gaze. “Thank you.” 

“As it happens—” Reaching, fingers in pristine white. A slim volume from some inner jacket pocket. “I have the first volume with me. Would you mind?”

“I’d be happy to.” 

Simeon takes it without looking. Pauses, feeling the heft in his hands. It’s perfectly smooth, a pristine blank cover. He doesn’t remember an edition like this, but there have been so many, he doesn’t make much effort to keep track. It looks like it’s never been opened, but with such a meticulous owner . . . 

When he presses it open, the pages are red.

“Where did you get this?” He traces the line of the binding: hand-sewn. Rifles through the pages, stopping at random some point halfway through. It’s an immaculate publisher’s manuscript, replete with his initial errors, before the revisions of his more embarrassing, indulgent pieces. Even glancing over the mess of overly effete paragraphs is making him shamefully self-conscious. 

“A friend of mine. It was a very generous gift.”

Simeon huffs, surprisingly affected. “It must have been a quest to track this down. It’s been so long since my first volume was released.”

“I don’t believe it was any great trial at all.”

“Was this _before_ Lord Diavolo told you to stop using your powers for frivolous things?” Satan asks, breaking the intimacy of their shared conversation. His tone is jovial, although with the fourth brother that doesn’t carry much weight. 

Barbatos, for his part, doesn’t seem particularly bothered. “No, as it happens. Although to be clear, I wouldn’t have used it for something like this, anyway. I simply happened to read the first book when it came out and enjoyed it immensely. You could say I had a . . . _feeling_ about it.”

“Powers?” Simeon asks, although he thinks he has a fairly strong suspicion. 

"Barbatos can see the future," Satan says simply. 

So, he didn't have to ask, after all. "I see." It is too simple a statement for the scope of what that might entail, but he doesn't know what else to say. Power that impressive must weigh heavy.

Still. To be so invested in a fledgling work, something that Simeon had turned to like a salve; insufficient medication against the devastation of that final divorce. All his most desperate feelings translated into script when he could not risk a prayer. He's touched. 

He's honest in his message, in the swooping lines of his signature. The appearance of this copy feels like clemency. He hopes he can convey his appreciation. 

Barbatos doesn't read over his shoulder as he signs, only takes the book back with a slight bow and opens it immediately to that transformed page.

"I don't know what to say," Barbatos murmurs, as he reaches the bottom of the note. He seems . . . affected.

"You're too sincere, Simeon," Satan chuckles, watching. "We aren't used to angelic sentiment, down here." 

~~And isn't that a blessing, the pressure of this strange atmosphere paradoxically more free~~

"I gathered." 

Satan tilts his head, the light of frantic interest growing in his eyes. A dangerous thing, from so avid a scholar. "Say, Simeon, come have tea with me. My treat. And Barbatos, too, if you'd like to join us." 

"I _am_ free this afternoon, but I wouldn't want to impose." 

"Thank you Satan, but why the sudden invitation?"

"To thank you for signing my book, of course." Satan shrugs, smiling. "Besides, I don't often have the opportunity to pick the brain of such a prolific author."

They settle at Madame Scream's. 

The shop emerges from a warmly lit street, an awning woven out of vines dangling above a series of ironwork patio furniture. A shock of silver; Solomon is waving at them, seated at a table for four. Satan must have invited him.

"Hello, Solomon." Simeon starts. 

"I'm here for book club," he says pleasantly, turning over his shoulder to find a waiter. "Hello, Barbatos." 

"Solomon."

Satan leans over the table as he sits, already reaching. A platter of cookies is settled in the centre, although it appears as though the sorcerer wasn't presumptuous enough to order tea. "You didn't get the pawprint cookies."

"They're sold out, don't be angry." 

Simeon chances a glance from the corner of his eye, but the avatar of wrath only huffs as he sits back. "I'm not as easy to upset as you seem to think."

They dissolve into mindless pleasantries as Simeon picks up the laminated menu laid out at his place. A startling array of different blends, some of which he couldn't make a passable guess at the pronunciation of. They're accompanied by vibrant illustrations; the flowers that comprise the tea in their full and blooming glory.

"If you're having some difficulty, my personal favourites are these two, here." A white-gloved finger indicates two listings, somehow a motion that is neither a tap nor point. "They have a very unique flavour. I don't think you'll find it anywhere else."

"So you _will_ allow someone else to make your tea," Simeon says, teasing. Barbatos frowns, but it doesn't reach his eyes. 

"You were a guest."

"Apparently they import a new blend every month," Solomon says, watching with something like bemusement. Whatever question is on his tongue, he doesn't voice. "I wouldn't be surprised if Barbatos came specifically to try it, every now and then."

"You wouldn't be incorrect."

The waiter, in fact, _knows_ him. 

Simeon is quietly attentive while Barbatos orders. This is a different face. Normally the butler is reserved in company (even if it slips, just the slightest, when the two of them are together), but. He looks up into this stranger's face and _smiles_. It is disarmingly sincere, and Simeon feels a strange coil of tension winding at his core. 

This is the first time Simeon has ever seen that look on Barbatos' face.

"— Are you done?" Solomon is asking, long after the waiter has retreated. Simeon blinks. "With what?"

"With the seven lords. I was devastated to hear the current volume was going to be the last."

Satan sighs. "You should have heard Levi. He was sobbing in his room for a full month, at least. We had to bribe him out with tickets to one of those idol shows."

"Which one?" Solomon asks. It's impossible to deduce if his interest is sincere. 

Satan closes his eyes, looking _tired_. "Sugar Round K. _Not_ R, which was apparently an important distinction to make."

"Are they a new group?" Simeon asks. He really knows so little about popular Devildom culture, and clearly they have made _strides_ since his last fitful bout of research. 

"No," Solomon and Satan say in concert. Satan takes a cookie; something round and dark with all the texture of a stone disk. The _crunch_ as he bites is savage and satisfied. "Don't avoid the topic. Are you really going to stop?"

"I've told all the stories I wanted to tell," Simeon says simply. And how could his restless fantasies compare with the appeal of this unexpected new reality? The brothers are _here_ , close enough to touch. Changed but _alive_. Whole and thriving. 

"In that case maybe I _will_ ask you to sign the rest of my volumes." 

Simeon smiles. "It will cost you more than one cup of tea." 

The afternoon goes by in a surprising flash. It is dim lights growing dimmer, butter and sugar and easy conversation. The soothing slide of tea down his throat as he finds himself actually enjoying the discussion. He'd typically turned down all invitations for an author interview or events (even those done remotely, the maintenance of a comforting shade of anonymity). 

It's unexpectedly nice to talk about his work. 

"I'm surprised you didn't ask him to sign the books for Lord Diavolo," Solomon says to Barbatos, reaching for a stick of shortbread. It's too soft, fat pieces crumbling off in his hands. There's the telltale twitch, as the butler refrains from wiping at it.

"Perhaps he isn't a fan,"Simeon says, letting the steam from his mug of tea waft into his face. He'll have to return, try a new flavour every time. Everything he's had here is so _different_. 

“He is," Barbatos says. "His interest was rekindled after our other human exchange student began that competition with Leviathan." He lifts the teacup with too much grace, white gloves immaculate. "But I would never presume to have you deface my Lord’s property.”

“Ah,” Simeon says, feeling the sting of disappointment? Insult?

“Why be coy? You just didn’t want to get the author’s distinction for someone else.” Satan smiles, leaning back gracefully in his seat. 

Simeon doesn't turn to him, but he feels the curiosity must be evident in his voice. “Does he know that I wrote the books?”

Barbatos closes his eyes as he sips. “I have no idea.”

“Really. You haven’t told him?”

“He’s never asked. It’s hardly information crucial to the ruling of the Devildom, after all.” He places the cup soundlessly back on the saucer. “Besides, I often find that works published under a pen name are done so for a reason.”

It's a consideration he never would have expected in his own realm. Angels are not allowed their secrets.

He doesn't know what to say. 

Satan hums, one finger tracing the rim of his cup. "I do have one more question, actually." 

Simeon inclines towards him, expectant. They've already finished all the pastries on the plate.

“What gave you the idea to write it?”

Solomon and Barbatos both turn to look at Satan, incredulous. But Simeon just smiles and says. “I wonder.”


	7. Chapter 7

"—apologize, I'm almost done." The words are already waiting before he's even fully opened the door. 

Simeon closes it carefully behind him, the latch silent at his urging. "No need. I'm afraid I'm the one who's early." 

Barbatos doesn't look up, focus intense. "There's a pot of tea on the table behind you. I'm terribly sorry, but you're going to have to pour it for yourself." 

"A shocking inconvenience," Simeon says, and is rewarded with the slow and subtle spread of something not quite a grin. He turns and flips a teacup in black ceramic, lowers the spout carefully towards the centre. A steady stream of something pale blue and bright pours out, little petals of white swirling in the cloudy liquid. A shock of day wrapped in night. 

He doesn't pick up the curlicued handle. 

Instead he walks around the tall table that Barbatos is huddled over, a large text spread open on the surface. Draws the empty cup towards him and fills it. There's a sudden oppressive stillness as the steward freezes, fingers pausing in their complicated motions. Simeon waits patiently for a reprimand but . . . "Thank you."

"It's no trouble."

They settle into silence as Simeon replaces the pot, picks up his cup and takes that first sip. It tastes like cold air and morning dew and something almost minty. He closes his eyes.

"Is it to your liking?" 

"You've never made something I disliked," Simeon says mildly. It's a truly remarkable statistic: one hundred percent satisfaction. He wonders if it's a power or the astute observation afforded by centuries catering to everyone else's needs. He wonders if he's ever had anyone looking after _him_. 

He cradles the porcelain in one gloved hand, black on black. The liquid doesn't waver as he wanders over, peering at the dense words beneath the butler's hands. They're fairytales. Simeon watches as Barbatos weaves a complicated binding spell into his text.

“What is that for?”

“My Lord has asked me to help him arrange a scavenger hunt,” he replies, as though this is answer enough. Simeon watches for a moment, considering. It is. 

"That sounds like fun." 

"My Lord is full of amusing ideas," Barbatos says. "Although if you're interested, I'll tell him that you'd like to participate."

"That's alright." Simeon takes another sip. "I fear the brothers would have me at a disadvantage. The Prince's games always seem very personal."

"Perhaps I can help him tailor it to better suit you."

Simeon pauses, leaning against the edge where Barbatos is working. His white-gloved fingers still haven't stopped moving, tracing magic circles in the air above the dense tome. "Do you think you know me well enough?"

There's a teal glow, magic seeping into the pages, flowing over sentences before they settle. The butler presses his palms to the paper, once, very gently. Then flips the cover closed. 

"I could."

"Oh?"

Barbatos reaches for his teacup. "Would you be willing to fill out a survey?"

"If I said yes, would you actually have one on hand?" 

A long, slow sip. "If I did, would you be surprised?" 

Simeon watches him carefully, drinking serenely from his cup. He can't decide. There is still so much of him that he doesn't know.

* * *

  
It is cooler in here than almost anywhere else in the Devildom that he has yet been. He can feel it in the air; thinner, sharper. Almost like home. 

Simeon keeps his hands behind his back as he walks, consciously not reaching out towards the overflowing barrels of produce lined along the pathways. Large green leaves, trailing vines heavy with fruit, everything coloured in bright jewel tones and shifting in the light. 

It's his turn to buy the groceries for Purgatory Hall. Luke usually takes on this chore, since it gives him an opportunity to pick out exciting new ingredients for his increasingly inventive recipes, but he's fallen behind on some of his schoolwork. Solomon had offered to hold a study session for the young angel, so far ahead in his classwork Simeon suspects he's already finished the workload for the entirety of the school year. 

He has a list in one hand. A trailing length of parchment; Michael's preferred stationery. Even here Luke caters too much to the higher angel's whims. (He'd attempted to send it to him over text, but Simeon had accidentally deleted several messages too many times for Luke to feel entirely confident about the efficiency of the trip).

Unfortunately, Simeon still hasn't spent any significant amount of time learning about agriculture in the Devildom. He is easily distracted; too much vying for his attention and with only limited opportunity. ~~They're here, they're here, _he's_ is here.~~ He will not miss this chance. 

This means, of course, that he can only identify roughly twenty percent of the items he's been tasked with purchasing.

"It's wonderful to see you back here, Barbatos." 

He looks up from Luke's cramped handwriting. (His hands are small and his letters even smaller). The butler is standing in front of a vendor's stall, looking down at the wares with an uncommonly focused expression. "You know I think you have the finest quality of devilberries at the market. Do you mean to tell me you haven't set aside a box for the castle?"

"It'll be sent out at closing. Would you like to inspect them?" 

"Thank you, but there's no need. You've never given me a bad batch." Barbatos reaches down, plucks something round and bright yellow with petals unfurling from the stem. He speaks without looking up. "Simeon, are you here on your errands as well?"

"I am." Simeon pauses, considering. The butler appears busy; he wouldn't want to impose. 

"Would you like to join me?" 

_Obvious._ Simeon has never felt like this before. All that time spent marshalling his expressions, his thoughts, every potential tell. He can't be so easy to read as this demon makes him feel. 

"You wouldn't mind?"

"I wouldn't ask otherwise." He turns, then, and the smile that he levels at the angel is shockingly genuine. Simeon stills, arrested by the expression, and it occurs to him in a startling flash that perhaps he is not the only one seeking company. 

"Then, please." He falls in beside the man, white gloves still gently caressing a selection of the yellow produce. "I have to confess, I'm going to need some help. I don't really know the names of most of the things on display."

"I see." Barbatos pauses, passing a handful of what Simeon assumes are vegetables over to the vendor. "And what were you going to do if I hadn't invited you along?"

"I would have asked the vendors, probably. I'm sure I would have managed."

"That might have taken you a while," Barbatos says. He holds out one pristine glove, and Simeon pauses for a moment before he realizes what he wants. Barbatos peruses the list with an overly-serious manner. When his head lifts, he does not look impressed. "This is a very long list."

"I didn't say I would have managed it quickly."

It's a laugh, the noise that follows. No subtlety in the sound — real and just slightly louder than his normal speaking volume. A warm satisfaction melts through Simeon, dripping along his shoulders, over his chest. He's never heard it from him before.

"You would have been here long after closing," Barbatos manages, looking amused. "If you'll follow me, I can help you get this done before most of the morning has passed."

"What about your shopping?" Simeon asks. Aside from his list, Barbatos is not holding anything in either hand. 

"I have standing orders to be delivered to the castle. Aside from checking on the status of those, I mainly come to explore new ingredients, and speak with the vendors." 

"I see." He takes his scrolling parchment back, loosely unfurled in one hand. "In that case, please. I have no idea where I'm going."

Barbatos makes a little moue that Simeon recognizes as teasing. "But you were disguising it so well." 

The demon sets an easy pace. Slower than he'd expected for someone so busy, almost deceptively at leisure if it weren't for the rigid posture of his spine. Simeon follows, the diminished length of his steps surprisingly familiar. 

They're keeping pace with an angel that isn't even there.

"I can keep up with your strides a little better than Luke, you know."

Barbatos blinks at him. "Of course. I apologize, I suppose I've gotten used to metering my pace to fit his." 

"That's very kind of you," Simeon says. It slips out; his voice embarrassingly heavy with approval and affection. 

Barbatos is silent for a moment. ". . . I enjoy having him around. He's a very eager student." He isn't walking any faster.

Simeon hums, something tuneless and sweet. "He respects you a great deal, you know."

"I may have suspected. He's called me 'master' to my face at least twice, although I think it was a slip of the tongue." 

"He meant it. Even if he didn't necessarily say it straight _to_ you." He can probably guess at the instances. Luke has returned to Purgatory Hall incredibly flustered at least twice, and had rebuffed all Simeon's concerned prodding. He'd assumed it had been a difficult lesson but now. . . 

"He did get very red. And he refused to look at me for the rest of our baking session." Barbatos pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is soft. "It was . . . cute. Ah. Here we are."

They've stopped in front of a stall piled high with dark black gourds, shiny as polished glass. "I believe you require only three of the Maelgourds?" 

Simeon holds the list up, scanning attentively. "Yes, that's exactly right." Luke's careful print is so familiar to him now — something so intimate from an angel he once barely knew in passing. "I'm glad Luke is adjusting well. I was worried about him. But it looks like he's managed to let go of his trouble with the demons." His voice is careful, without inflection.

 ~~At least one of them should walk away from this experience satisfied~~.

Barbatos takes the tote bag deliberately from where it's threaded over Simeon's arm. The canvas catches at his gloves, threatening the edge, and Barbatos lifts it overly high to prevent this sudden exposure. "My Lord has always been interested in the culture of the human realm."

"Oh," Simeon says, startled from his spiraling thoughts. "Is that so?"

"Yes. He used to incorporate things he learned from the humans into games with the brothers."

Simeon doesn't know what response is expected of him. _The Prince's games_. All this _time_ with his former brothers that he's never had. There's a strang, uncomfortable irritation: like water, just at the beginning of a boil. It sits low in his chest, a sensation that he doesn't think he's experienced before. It takes him a moment to place; he's only been familiar with the theory, after all.

He's jealous.

"The games were much more tame to start. My Lord was still learning, but he adapts so quickly."

"I can only imagine how well Lucifer took to them," Simeon says. He doesn't have to close his eyes to conjure the look of consternation on the Morning Star's face. Fleeting glances that he still remembers, delivered behind the broad expanse of Michael's wings. 

There's a twitch at the corner of the butler's mouth. Like he was about to allow another rare laugh. "There was a small period of adjustment."

Simeon hums, reaches out to caress the soft flesh of the nearest fruit. The skin blooms under his touch; luminescent. Like a still-living thing. "And has he adjusted?"

There's silence for a moment. He can sense the way Barbatos must be weighing his words, and he's reminded of that very first private tea, of the absurd intimacy of his questions then. He wonders if enough has changed to be afforded the privilege of honesty.

"I would like to believe he enjoys them more than he lets on," Barbatos says slowly. Carefully, like he's only voicing the thought long after it occurs, conscientious of each meaning. "He's a very serious demon. It's my hope that these games offer a brief reprieve." 

"So he complains about them," Simeon says, as the steward slows in front of another stall. White gloves point at a selection of produce hanging on a sharply spiked vine, and the vendor nods and wordlessly unhooks it with limbs too sinuous to be confused as Hominidae. 

"Of course not." Simeon stares at his companion, impassive, and Barbatos actually *chuckles* and amends, "Not _directly_ to my Lord, at any rate."

He speaks almost fondly. Simeon accepts the wrapped package from the vendor with a distracted smile. He wants to ask him . . . The questions sits heavy on his tongue, a pill he can't quite swallow. There is a whole history in the air here that he has no knowledge of, an atmosphere too heavy for flight; dense with secrets and _time_.

Perhaps that's why every breath still tastes too thick.

 ~~Are you two friends?~~

If Barbatos has noticed the ugly emotions that he's desperately entombing, he doesn't show it. Instead white satin lands against black as he guides him by the arm. A firm touch, surprisingly cool. Their heat carefully separated by insulated layers, all contact a shade removed.

For a startling moment, Simeon doesn't remember why he's wearing gloves.

"Luke asked for these?" Barbatos is looking down at the grocery list, leaning too far into Simeon's space to read the tiny writing. "The rest of your items are for a recipe I told him I'd teach him next week. He doesn't mean to practice ahead of time, does he?"

"Maybe he's hoping to impress you," Simeon says, amused. How like the younger angel; so precocious. 

"These are difficult things to find, even here. Please, stay close. The spice vendors tend to group in very closely together and it can be a . . . challenge, to navigate the pathways they mark out with their stalls." 

"Thank you for your help." Simeon takes the bag back from the butler. The demon returns to his roles too easily, already having carried its increasing load for nearly the entirety of their trip. "I hope I'm not disrupting your own chores too much."

"You caught me at the end of them," Barbatos says easily. Simeon still can't discern a lie from that implacable expression. 

He'll have to take him at his word.

"What was your favourite, then?"

Barbatos looks back, not faltering in his steps even as the paths grow more narrow, the spaces between stalls shrinking to accommodate barely a single visitor. Everything is dimmer here, the close press of wood and produce blocking out the light. "My favourite?"

"Of Lord Diavolo's games," Simeon clarifies. The trailing edge of his cape catches on a thorny vine, and when he turns to dislodge it the spores that brush off on the hem fluoresce in bright teal. The same colour as—

“My Lord had the brilliant idea to hold a fancy dress party." Barbatos is facing forwards again, wending his way over a multitude of various pitfalls without so much as a glance. Practiced. Elegant. "He assigned costumes to each of the brothers. I believe Lucifer was a human superhero. In full tights and cape.”

Simeon is startled by a chuckle, organic and fully unexpected. "Do you happen to have any pictures?"

"Of course. Although if you'd like to see them, I'll have to ask that you keep them to yourself. Lucifer would never forgive such a breach of trust."

"I promise," Simeon says, perhaps too eager. He pauses, settles his mind and tries to call stillness back to himself. How desperate, to be chasing any morsel. Is this what he's reduced to? 

But he doesn't take it back.

"What made that your favourite?"

Barbatos stops so abruptly that if Simeon were any less alert he might have fallen into him. As it is he barely manages to catch himself a hair's breadth from the butler's side. This close to anyone else Simeon would be able to feel their heat, lifting towards him. Instead there is only the strange absence of it, enclosed within an immaculately pressed suit. 

"It might have been the only time Lucifer said he'd enjoyed himself."

The angel pauses, considering. "Is that something you actively work towards?"

"It's always nice to know your efforts are appreciated." Simeon thinks, if Barbatos were someone else, this is where he might have shrugged. As it is he only bends at the waist, back straight, as he reaches into a dark pouch hanging from a wooden beam. The fingers of his gloves come away bright blue.

"It's a bit dimmer than usual, but it should work for the recipe Luke has in mind." Barbatos rubs his fingers together and the stain disappears. "Don't let Solomon anywhere near it; it's incredibly volatile."

"Dangerous?" He asks, alarmed. "Should I be letting Luke use this unsupervised?"

"No, nothing like that. But it's a strong taste. A little goes a long way and Solomon has a tendency to . . . _improvise_." 

"Ah." An awfully diplomatic way to frame it. "Even Beel couldn't finish his meal."

Barbatos smiles at him with a kind of terrible mirth. "He hasn't tried to cook for you, has he?"

"Unfortunately . . ."

He looks on the verge of another laugh. "I'm surprised you've survived for as long as you have."

"Lucifer always said I was alike Beel in that regard. A startling constitution." Even now his mind keeps circling back — a compass always returning north. He's in an awfully wistful mood today. 

"Did he?" The butler's voice has gone subdued. He stills, hands clasping behind his back, and Simeon is lost for a moment, before he remembers what they've come to do. The grimm he finally offers to the vendor is thick and heavy, surface tarnished by dirt or rust or the oils of a million other hands.

"Is there anything else you needed?"

 ~~Yes~~ "No. Thank you for all your help."

Barbatos nods, starts to wend his way back through the various alleys of the market towards the main path. Is silent for a touch too long, the subtle beat of his footsteps overrun by the sounds of stalls finally coming down, wares packed away for the day. Simeon stares down at the load hanging on his arm. It's surprisingly heavy. 

Most vendors have already cleared away, nearer the entrance. Simeon experiences temperature mainly in the abstract, but he thinks the space seems colder in this emptiness than it had when he first arrived. 

"Are you needed urgently back at Purgatory Hall?"

Simeon blinks, startled by the sudden conversation. "No. I cleared out most of the day for this errand. I thought it would take more time, going shopping on my own."

"So now you have some free time, then?"

"I do."

Barbatos nods, like this has decided something, although Simeon can't guess at what. "Excellent. Then would you like to come with me?"

"Where to?" 

Instead of answering, Barbatos glances off to the side, just slightly over the angel's shoulder. His gaze is focused, deliberate. Knowing. "There are things you want to ask me."

Neither of them pretend it is a question.

The curl of the parchment in Simeon's gloves has gone crumpled. Worn and stained after being dangled so carelessly on their journey. He should throw it out.

He tucks the completed grocery list into his bag. "Would you answer me?"

"If I think I can."

"Alright. Please, lead the way."

The atmosphere is stifling after wandering about in all that air-conditioned cold. Heat that his senses recognize as pressure, coiling up towards him. He can feel the way it makes his outline shimmer, before more applied concentration steadies out his form.

They're in the flower market.

"I _was_ keeping you from your duties," Simeon says, too practiced at swallowing guilt to let it thread through his words. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm here for my own pleasure." Barbatos walks easily ahead, tall fronds swallowing the elegant lines of his legs. His words are soft.

Simeon is conscious of his large bag dangling off one arm, obtrusive in the planter lanes. Attempts to tug it towards his chest, letting it bump uncomfortably against the sharp edges of his hip. Large, drooping petals and spiked leaves reach out to him from every edge, colours in such dizzying diversity he can't put a name to them. Pollen is heavy here, some motes sparking in the air. The ones that land on him sizzle like embers, flaring bright and briefly before fading to ash.

"The conflagration blooms are particularly active at this time of the year. Please be careful, the larger spores might burn."

Simeon lifts his arm to his face. His gloves are pristine, as always. A relief, even if he can already see tiny singe marks on the canvas bag. "Which ones are those?"

"The little black stones. I wouldn't advise you stand too close to them, if you can help it. They tend to flare up unexpectedly."

"I see." Simeon bends towards a stone anyway, curious, safely out of immediate range. There's a shudder before it hacks sparks into the air, spiraling with unnervingly even geometry. "They're wonderful."

"I'm glad they meet with your approval." And he *sounds* it. "There are also a beautiful selection of wraith lilies, if you'd like something a little less . . . incendiary. They're famous for their floating petals."

He can guess at those; there are bowls hanging from the ceiling, trailing petals hovering over the sides, disconnected from any visible stem. Some sweet scent trails down, nearly tangible. "They're beautiful, but I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to keep them." He pauses, trying to find his guide. He can no longer see him, swallowed by all this vibrant greenery. "Am I finally having my Devildom agriculture lessons?" 

"Is that what you'd like?"

"That depends. Will this be featuring on my exams?" Simeon bends towards a single stem, flowers asymmetrically heavy on one side. Tiny things the exact shade and shape of human skulls. 

"I'll administer yours personally."

"I can't say how grateful I am for such a devoted teacher," Simeon murmurs. The perfume in here is growing cloying. He forgot, for a moment, that he didn't actually need to breathe.

"Only because I suspect you aren't any kind of grateful at all."

When he rounds the corner he's met with the rigid expanse of the butler's back. It's broader, up close, less slender when not in direct competition with the wide set of the Prince's impressive shoulders. There's a spot of bright orange on the left, where a spot of pollen must have been sneezed onto his coat. Simeon considers whether it would be too audacious of him to brush it off.

"The corpse flower is incredibly rare even in the human world. Some only bloom every few years." His gaze flicks up towards the towering plant, something that had gone impossibly unnoticed. The tall spadix brushes the ceiling of the enclosure. "The ones we have in the Devildom are exceptionally old. The youngest only bloom every few centuries."

The petals are extended, a purple so deep he can feel the _age_ of it, drawn in towards that fragrant centre. Simeon reaches forwards after a quick glance at his companion, who nods him forwards with an easy smile. "Don't get _too_ close. At that size everything begins to look like food."

"It's an impressive creature," Simeon says softly. 

"It was a gift. Something that Lucifer procured for Lord Diavolo eons ago." 

A gift from Lucifer. Simeon clasps his hands together, feels the slide of satin on his skin. He can understand the precious value of it. The size feels like a monument, a sentiment that he can't approach. "Is this why we're here?"

"The last time it bloomed was when it was gifted," Barbatos says. "This is a rare occasion. I wanted to appreciate it."

"Won't Lord Diavolo want to see this?" 

"He'll be along later." He extends a gloved finger, running around the cup with a delicate touch. The flower twitches under his motion, but he detaches easily. "I suppose I wanted the opportunity to take it in while nothing else was demanding my attention."

"Am I a distraction?"

"Not at all."

They stand in silence, the majesty of the plant dwarfing the flotsam of Simeon's thoughts. Letting their eyes remain fixed in place, sharing a moment where the world is still. 

Barbatos breaks it first. "Are you going to ask?"

 ~~Yes. No. Maybe.~~ Simeon takes a deep breath, nearly chokes on the cloying taste. Shifts to hold the bag under one arm, wary of the threat of bruising. "How did he do it?"

"Please be a little more specific."

"Lord Diavolo. How did he change Lucifer's mind?" He shifts, feels a tension in his back. When was the last time he spread his wings? "They were never friendly before."

"What a generous way to phrase it," Barbatos murmurs. "Although I think that made it easier. He had prejudice but no expectations. My Lord could have done nothing and he wouldn't have been disappointed."

It's a funny thing. Both their relationships are shaped not by what they did but by what they didn't do. Simeon reaches forwards, fingers the very edge of the plant. He is struck by the sudden impression that it is trying to touch him back.

"I thought I was going to follow him," he says quietly. "Lucifer once took up so much of my world, it seemed inconceivable to live an existence without him in it. I thought—" 

Movement, shattering the stillness. Simeon cuts off abruptly, startled. There's a flash of red and black in his periphery, a whiff of something that could be leather and fire, and suddenly he is reminded of an old saying: 'Speak of the devil and he will appear.' 

It's never worked for him before. 

He catches Lucifer’s eye from across the room, brisk steps carrying him swiftly to the exit. Separated by heavy avenues of flowers and grasses and fertilizer, the trailing edges of his jacket brushing against the leaves. A complicated, incomprehensible expression flits across his face, and then he’s turning, snapping the door briskly open and stepping through. It closes, heavy, and suddenly the air is clearer. And less rich. 

He sighs. A long breath, all that unused air. Withdraws his hand so he can adjust the load in his arms. “Sometimes I wonder if the outcome would have been different. If I’d made a different choice.”

There’s silence for too long. Even without looking he can feel the weight of the butler's gaze, expression perfectly impassive. “Are you asking me—”

“No.” His voice is easy, serene as he gazes at the closed door. “There’s no reason to upset ancient history.”

"History is more fluid than you realize." 

Of course. Things must be so easy for someone who already knows their course. Simeon can feel liquid seeping beneath his fingers, muscle tensing so suddenly he couldn't stop the damage. He's shattered a gourd; an involuntary reflex. 

~~He's burning from the inside out, everything heat and regret and the bile of imperfect feeling, a wound angry and open and he doesn't know where to lay the blame~~

"It must be nice." He can't look at the butler, eyes trained on the door, seeing a silhouette instead of all that dark metal. "To be able to ensure the reality you want."

Barbatos makes a noise that could almost be a hum. "You're assuming that the choices I make will dictate the way the future plays out." Simeon can hear the slight crinkle of fabric. When he turns Barbatos is staring downwards, adjusting his gloves. He's almost stunned by the regular quality of that action. Simeon has never seen him do that before. “But you forget; our decisions are not the only ones we have to live with.”

Barbatos turns on his heel, footsteps so silent Simeon could almost believe he isn't here at all. "Come, they'll have to close the market soon. And I'm sure Luke is eagerly awaiting your return."

"Of course." 

It's awkward, the walk back. Silence and some oppressive atmosphere that Simeon can recognize as his responsibility. But he can't bring himself to mend it. 

He doesn't know what to say.

"Thank you for accompanying me," he manages finally, when they've stopped outside the entrance. Barbatos inclines his head, and Simeon notices, for the first time, a tall bouquet of something aggressive with sharp edges. He didn't see him pick it up.

"It was my pleasure." 

That can't be true, not for the whole of it, but Simeon will take courtesy when it's offered. He smiles, because at the very least he's practiced enough to remember the shape of it, the familiar lines forcing a release of all that earlier tension. He can feel his shoulders starting to relax. "I'll have to show my gratitude properly. Come over to the hall on your next evening off. We'll make dinner."

" _All_ of you?"

This is familiar. Easy, safe conversation that he falls into with relief. That strange emotion buried under the normalcy of these words. "I promise to keep him firmly out of the kitchen."

"Then I would be delighted." Barbatos plucks something from his bouquet with delicate fingers: a bloom that looks soft when separated from its brothers. He tucks it into Simeon's bag, the petals vibrant against the canvas. "Please tell Luke I'll look forward to it."

"I'll let him know."

* * *

  
"What do you _mean_ we're going to be cooking for Barbatos?!?!?!?" 

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if any of y'all have that good Simeon/Barbatos content PLEASE. 
> 
> My (18+) twitter is [here.](https://mobile.twitter.com/Sandcursive)


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